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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740171">Click</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyouraveragejulie/pseuds/notyouraveragejulie'>notyouraveragejulie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Guillaume Tell- Rossini/de Jouy/Bis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Avalanches, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Meet-Cute, Modern Era, Photography, Pre-Canon, anyway this is such a healthy wonderful relationship and we STAN, disappointed family members TM, missing scene (in that this is referenced but not shown), there is a snowball fight because I said so, these two are so cute</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:27:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyouraveragejulie/pseuds/notyouraveragejulie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how two wonderful people from two different worlds collided, met, and fell in love.</p>
<p>And yes, I am picturing Marina Rebeka and Juan Diego Flórez. Love them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mathilde de Habsburg/Arnold Melchtal</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Click</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>And...<em>click</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mathilde immediately checks the photo and smiles— it’s perfect. The way the defiantly dark green of the pines stands in bold contrast to the seemingly endless, blinding white snow that dominates the slopes of these Swiss Alps is visually jarring, absolutely incredible. It is only helped by the sweeping panorama, which makes it feel all the more immense, intense. It’s almost as if someone stepped into the body of the wanderer from Friedrich’s <i>Wanderer in the Sea of Fog</i>. Looking out, around, down into infinity.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And into danger. But she does not mind. She has never feared danger in her life. Rather, she thrives on the thrill of it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s plenty of danger in the Swiss Alps, but she does not care. She still boldly ventures here every weekend to take photos and improve her craft.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><i>Someday I’m going to get the hell out of this royal family and become a photojournalist, document injustice and horror— but also beauty and goodness,</i> she once told her older brother Gessler. He merely laughed, waved her off, and downed another glass of bourbon. (<i>Bourbon, of all things? At least drink red wine; I can’t stand bourbon.</i>)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But for now, until she can move into journalism, she mostly takes shots of the Alps and of the little things that happen, the people who take part in them: horn players trading calls, shepherds tending their flocks, dancers at a spring festival.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She has done this for almost two years, ever since her brother was appointed governor of this province. In that time, she has fallen more and more in love with this place, this people.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She knows they are angry. She knows they are suffering injustice afterinjustice. She tries to help any way she can, but no one will listen to her. And so, she has largely given up (but that flame is still burning, however dimly, within her).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She tries to bury her fury in the crisp winter air and in the wild beauty of this place. Thus far, it has mostly worked; now she focuses more on the simple art of photography, the technique, the finesse, the interplay of colors and light, the way the green triangles stand out on the sea of white, and the little black human outline is dwarfed by-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>Greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There weren’t supposed to be any people in this picture.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This has happened with nearly every photo she’s taken in the past hour: a single, tiny human form has inadvertently—or perhaps on purpose!— been in the frame, always too far off to push out of the way or even to yell, “HEY I’M TAKING A PHOTO HERE WOULD YOU PLEASE MOVE THANK YOU AND HAVE A GOOD DAY” and have them hear her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And it looks like it has been the same form every time: same shape, same size, same bulky black coat and...purple beanie??? Who in Switzerland even wears a purple beanie?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She sighs and shakes her head. <i>Looks like I’ll have to move to a different spot then.</i> So she takes her flask of wine, pours a little into her thermos of hot cocoa, shakes, drinks (goodness knows she needs some alcohol in her to deal with this), and moves on.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s been walking for maybe five minutes when she hears a very loud, long <i>crrrrrrruuuuuuuuunch</i> sound in the distance behind her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She turns around.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeat.</i>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>Get down! Get down, it’s an avalanche!</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(She may love the thrill of danger, but she’s not stupid.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>Grab something, anything hard. Hold on tight. Hope and pray you don’t die.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She does all three, hanging on to the nearest boulder for dear life as snow and debris sweep down the mountainside.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then, all at once, darkness.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“Hello? Hellooooooooooooo?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mathilde wearily opens her eyes. At first, she can make out nothing but snow and...bright light?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>I’m dead. I am officially dead. I have died and I am at the pearly gates, but I can’t see the gates, just a bunch of snow.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her vision gradually comes into focus: now she can see the bright light is merely coming from the oppressively white clouds, and now she can see the snow has an end, and that end is coming closer to her, or she’s coming closer to it... (she cannot tell which)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At last, she can see two...gray hands passing over her face. Gray hands???</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you okay?” a nearby voice says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah...” she replies wearily. She can’t see the source of the man’s voice. “What...what happened? There was an avalanche...”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You were holding on to a boulder, but the avalanche swept you under and down the mountainside. I chased after you and when it stopped, I started digging you out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thank you...” The man proffers his hands to pull her out, and after much grunting and what seems like hours but is actually only about a minute, she’s sitting comfortably on the snow, her bag still tightly wrapped around her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She nervously checks it, and to her relief, finds that not only is her camera still in there but (after a quick test shot of her olive-green and tan boots) is still working completely fine. Also still in there are her thermos of hot cocoa and her flask of wine.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You want anything?” she offers, still not getting a good look at him beyond his hands. “Hot cocoa? Wine?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ll pass. I have my own thing of coffee, but thanks.” He pauses, then adds, “You want some coffee? It’ll warm you right up.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not a coffee person, but thanks for the offer.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She takes a long drink of cocoa and wipes her mouth with her hand. “Well, seriously, thanks for saving my life.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You don’t have to thank me. It’s the decent thing to do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You put your own life at risk!” She jokingly shoves him— and then sees that he’s wearing a purple beanie. She studies him more closely: purple beanie, gray gloves, otherwise dressed completely in black.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<i>You!</i> You’re the one who’s been popping up in my pictures all afternoon!” She’s not sure whether she’s angry or surprised. Maybe both.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s definitely feeling strange, that’s for sure.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Uh...I’m sorry-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t be. I don’t think you were trying to or anything; you were always far away. It’s just that I was trying to get some photos of the trees and the mountains and the clouds and...I kinda didn’t want any people in the frame.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, seriously, I feel awful-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“For the love of Pete, don’t!” She chucks a snowball and hits him square in the chest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, it is <i>on!</i>” He proceeds to miss. Mathilde laughs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For the next few minutes, they go back and forth hitting each other with snowballs. She has better accuracy, but he can throw more quickly, so it’s a veritable draw and they both end collapsed on the snow, doubled over in laughter.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, you gotta tell me,” Mathilde sharply inhales, “what’s your name?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Arnold. Yours?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mathilde.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Beautiful. Oh, and my last name is Melchtal.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Melchtal?!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I know him! He’s so nice to me whenever I go down to Altdorf-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wait, you’ve been to Altdorf?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ve been there many times.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah. I go down there and I take photos and I talk to the people. Everyone I’ve met there is nice to me. Melchtal was one of the first people to talk to me the first time I went to Altdorf, and he and I have talked many times since. He’s a good man.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And he’s my father.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, obviously you inherited your kindness from him, then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arnold grins sheepishly. “Thanks.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He told me once that he had a wonderful son who was studying abroad.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, that must be me, then. I studied in France for a couple of years. I actually only got back a few months ago.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Months?! How have I not met you before?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Dunno. I wish I have.” He sounds serious, but almost self-consciously lightly chuckles.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What did you study in France?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Political science. I want to negotiate freedom for Switzerland. I would prefer to win our freedom peacefully, without war, destruction, bloodshed.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I wouldn’t be so optimistic.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mathilde sighs and shakes her head. “I’m Austrian.” She pauses to consider how best to proceed, then goes on, slightly bitter: “My family moved here about two years ago from Austria, and they still almost exclusively associate with their fellow high-and-mighty Austrian expatriates. And all they talk about is how Switzerland is Austria’s jewel and how they’ll never give it up and blah blah blah and frankly, I’m sick of it.” She rolls her eyes. “No one should have to live under an oppressor’s boots.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Agreed!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“All their talk has led me to think that your only recourse is in revolution.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s what some of my friends say. My father says that too.” He breaks off and thinks for a moment, his brows furrowed. “My father seems disappointed in me because I say I’d rather keep life as it is than potentially waste thousands of lives in a revolution that doesn’t even work.” He shakes his head. “I want to be free, but I don’t want us to sacrifice so many lives, any hope of peace, in bloodshed and in violence.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re a very gentle man. And I get what you mean about your family being disappointed in you. My older brother is all I have, and he hates me for wanting Switzerland to be free.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m sor-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For the first time, Mathilde notices the sky has darkened. She checks her phone for the time. “God dammit, it’s getting late.” She looks up at Arnold. “I’m really sorry, but I have to get home...they’re expecting me there...”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s okay.” He smiles reassuringly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wait!” She stops. “Hold that smile, stand very still...let me get a picture.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He shoots her a puzzled look but does as she says. She snaps one, two, three pictures. The lighting is perfect.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You want me to make funny faces?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why not!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He makes funny face after funny face. Mathilde laughs every time, and before she knows it, she’s taken nearly fifty photos of him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Okay, seriously, I gotta go, but you know what? I’ll keep those photos with you in the distance.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arnold laughs. “I still feel bad about that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Seriously, don’t.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She pulls out her phone again— about ten minutes have passed. “Can I have your number?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sure!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She presses the new contact button, types in his name, and hands the phone to him so he can type in his number.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wait! Contact photo. You want to take a selfie?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course!” Mathilde grabs her phone back and wraps one arm around Arnold’s shoulders. “Say cheese!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Cheeeeeeeeeeese!” they cry in unison.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The photo is adorably bad, nowhere near Mathilde’s usual high quality, but it’s cute, so she texts it to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Here, let me make a contact for you.” Ten seconds later, he looks back up at her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you ever tell me what your last name was?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><i>Oh no.</i> Mathilde, afraid that the Swiss would distrust, or even hate, her if they knew she was one of the Habsburgs, has never told anyone in Switzerland her last name. If they asked, she always sighed and said “it’s complicated” and no one ever questioned her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So she falls back on her usual response.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, if you want to tell me, I’ll listen to the whole complicated backstory.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, no...” She turns away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mathilde wipes away a stray tear and takes a deep breath. Still not looking at him, she whispers,</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“If I told you, you’d hate me forever.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He puts his hand on her shoulder and gently answers,</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re a Habsburg, aren’t you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The color drains from her cheeks and she spins to face him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How’d you know?!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re Austrian, you came here about two years ago, you only have an older brother, you want freedom for Switzerland but your family is disappointed in you for it, and you think I’ll hate you for your last name because I’m Swiss. It all adds up; you’re Gessler’s younger sister, aren’t you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am. I’m sorry.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t be. I don’t hate you for it; in fact, I don’t care.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You...you don’t?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why would I? Why would anyone good care? You are you just the same.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She can’t help but hug him. “That means the world to me, you know that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s just the decent thing to do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They release.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I guess so...” She smiles at him. “Okay, now I really have to go...I’ll call you later tonight?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You know it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And with that, Mathilde waves goodbye, begins to trudge up the slope, and turns around for a single moment. Arnold has already started to go down.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She focuses her lens, capturing the defiant green, the brooding dark gray, the blinding light, the little, black, no-longer-annoying-or-mysterious form waddling further and further away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And...<i>click.</i></p>
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